About the girl who came and almost lost my mind

10:27am
"why is it so hard to go
crazy
if you're not already
crazy?"
say the pigeons on the
fountain's gentle lip
where einstein's
statue watches over the
neon
lure of dennys'
fake smile and
the motel's stale breath
that's always
waking me up at 3am
like a
guilt-ridden conscience
asking:

why is it so hard...?

to shake the dust
of the daily
grind when it's always
just out
of reach like the
pigeon's feathers
streaming behind it as it
takes
off from the
fountain's edge where
i'd pour out my
beer-soaked
discouragement
and the statue's wise
eyes seem to say
"you're not even
halfway there yet."

and i'd think
of all the broken
dreams i'd
tossed like yesterday's
trash on
the pavement and the pigeon's
callous indifference
to it all
like a cruel mistress
who only
loves the chaos
she creates.

the pigeon's wings
beat out a
lonesome rhythm
on the fountain's
surface
like my own toes
tapping out a
syncopated beat
of defiance
and melancholy
when i'm bored and as i
try to make sense
of the meaningless,
and the pigeon's steady gaze
on the statue's
calm face
tells me that even
the mentally unstable
can't begin
to comprehend the
cognitive dissonance
of the sane.

(who among us isn't a little
crazy anyway?)

and i"d laugh
bitterly
at the absurdity of it
all as the pigeon
takes flight
again
and leaves me
to the
cruel beauty
of the statue's
stone heart.

and yet i'd walk
back and past
the fountain
every morning,
on my way to the library,
drawn like a
magnet
to a silk-wrapped
promise,
helpless to resist
the allure,
caught in my own
snare
and the pigeon's wild,
abandon,

and the statue's stoic
silence
would be my

constant reminder
that even if my current
shack job at the
motel was driving
me to madness,
there's always
someone more broken
than me
and that's a scam whore's
offer to come

and join the circus,

where the
crazy and the sane
are just two
peas in a pod
of existential
anguish.

and the pigeon's wings
would be my guide
to the promised
land of chaos
and the statue's
smiling face
would be my perpetual
welcome
to the never-ending
party of the
damned. 

2:19pm
i arrived back to my
motel room,
where I live
on the corner of
main and pine,
carrying james joyce
and tolstoy.
 
i think:

maybe I should give
that goddamn pigeon
a name.

jehovahs witnesses
left one of their tickets for
the afterlife on my door knob.

i'll call the pigeon
rotherham rudy.